Sunday, 1 November 2015

With November coming in, and pomegranates making a last show, you are leaving us to join your husband in the Infernos.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, you are going in a trail of blazing glory. The whole Earth is celebrating you with her best colours. Leaves have been invited and are dancing for you in their best gowns of yellow and gold, russet and copper, bronze and reds. The woods are all aflame, and the gardens are adorned with their most vivid flowers: dahlias, dishevelled or disciplined in round coronets, chrysanthemums vying with the waltzing leaves for bright and shining hues, and berries. Berries of all kinds, alluring orange and red, and the remaining black ones, calling for the birds to fly for them, twitter and peck the best.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, all little field and tree folk scurry around to gather nuts and acorns, the last grains, the bits of fruit left by us, your people.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, it is the time of our last harvest: grapes are almost all in and prepared for the wine that warms both hearts and bodies; apples are taken in and those that are still on the trees fall down on the soil with a thud; blackberries have been gathered and turned into jelly and jam, as have been the last gooseberries. A lonely tomato still hangs, solitary, on its branch in the garden. Pumpkins, marrows and squash brighten the browning earth. There is no Harvest Festival in thy country, Persephone, and none in mine, but we give thanks for the crops for which we have toiled while you were among us and that are now safe in barns and houses.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, the sky is still blue, and lazy white clouds parade around and stroll across it. There is dew in the mornings, sometimes hoar frost that crunches under feet, glistening spider webs and gossamer threads, liquid pearls that shimmer in the light. Later, the sun will drink them all and warm the day. Is it summer still? The evenings come in a glory of pink, mauve, purple and blue with a hint of orange and red. And the moon glimmers in a deep dark immensity.

Farewell, Persephone...

Soon, the sun will go down as a red balloon in cold skies. Soon, the earth will be frozen. Soon, the trees will be pruned and the hedges trimmed. Soon, the scent of smoke will rise up in the air and wisps will ascend in the chill to reach the bleak sky. Soon, the last apples will be rotting on the earth. Soon, the nightingale hill will be barren and the birds gone. Soon, the red robin will come to demand crumbs and food will be given to the black and blue tits. Soon, we shall crave for warmth in the home.

Farewell, Persephone...

There is nothing frightening about thee. No fairies and no witches follow thee. No horror, no pain, no fear. You are the goddess of bountiful life, and when you go back to your husband for some months, these allow the Earth to sleep. To sleep? No. The wheat grain does not sleep nor die really. It rests and gains strength for it will grow when thou wilt return to us.

Farewell, Persephone...

Spring will be here soon and thou wilt be back with it in a trail of blazing greens and whites and yellows and pinks.